by Julie Kenner
“Do I Make You Nervous?”
“No. Of course not. Why would you?” Her words were casual and he almost believed her. Except she started nibbling on her thumb.
He stifled the urge to pull her up from the couch and hold her close. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. Why on earth would I be nervous?”
“No reason at all. Unless you can read my mind.”
Her throat moved as she swallowed. “Why? What are you thinking?”
“About you.” He moved closer, knowing it was foolish, but also knowing that sometimes you just had to go with your gut. “About us.” He reached down and grabbed her arm, pulling her to her feet. “About Chinese food.”
Her little gasp tied itself up with his heart and twisted. What the hell was he doing? This was a woman who wanted home and hearth, not a guy like him. He didn’t want to lead her on; didn’t want to pretend to be something he wasn’t.
She licked her lips, her eyes never leaving his face. “Yes,” she whispered, and his body hardened as her unspoken promises caressed him.
“Yes, what?”
Her breath was shaky and she gripped the legal pad for dear life. “Yes, I’m nervous,” she said.
Critics Love Julie Kenner!
Aphrodite’s Passion
“Julie Kenner does it again! This follow-up to the hilarious and amazing Aphrodite’s Kiss is filled with the same sense of fun and originality as the first. Excellent reading!”
—Romantic Times
Aphrodite’s Kiss
“Julie Kenner has developed a wonderfully original storyline laden with fun. The whole concept of the Council of Protectors is marvelous. A true original, filled with humor, adventure and fun!”
—Romantic Times
“Aphrodite’s Kiss has made Julie Kenner’s books an autobuy for me.”
—All About Romance
“With her characteristic flair, Kenner will have the reader laughing till tears come at the marvelous antics and sparkling dialogue. Richly created characters, an outrageous plot, and a lovable ferret make Aphrodite’s Kiss a keeper.”
—Cindy Penn, WordWeaving
“What fun! The characters were well developed, sympathetic and lovable, while the supporting cast was fabulous…. For a wonderful read, I highly recommend Aphrodite’s Kiss.”
—Karen Larsen, ScribesWorld
“Julie Kenner’s latest is just plain wonderful, a non-stop roller-coaster ride full of humor, emotion, action, and endearing characters. Saving the world has never been this much fun. Brava Ms. Kenner. Aphrodite’s Kiss is a winner!”
—Lauren Michaels, Heart Rate Reviews
“Aphrodite’s Kiss is an exceptional book!…Julie Kenner’s imagination is to be applauded.”
—Road to Romance
The Cat’s Fancy
“…charming and magical.”
—Romantic Times
“…deserves a place on any keeper’s shelf.”
—WordWeaving
“…funny, witty, and unbelievably erotic.”
—Affaire de Coeur
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
An Original Publication of Pocket Books
POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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Copyright © 2003 by Julia Kenner
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form what soever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
ISBN-13: 978-0-7434-8080-2
ISBN-10: 0-7434-8080-5
POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Visit us on the World Wide Web:
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To Lauren McKenna, for so many reasons.
And to Catherine Elizabeth, who colors my life.
Acknowledgments
A great big thank-you to the Internet in general. Where else can one find out—at three in the morning—about the interior of a classic Volkswagen or the history of a Studillac? And thanks to my dad for his car expertise and to the folks at Penguin Putnam for being so generous in helping with my Mickey Spillane/Mike Hammer questions. Thanks also to the folks on the READ list, who never fail to offer unending support and to pitch in on those pesky research questions. And, finally, an extra special thank-you for her constant support and much-appreciated research help to Karen Kikipoo Boml, a fan who became a friend.
Chapter 1
“I need the best,” the dame in the doorway said.
She sashayed in to my office, her painted-on skirt hugging curves tighter than a Ferrari maneuvering the Swiss Alps. Her hips twitched out a message in Morse Code just for me—a message I considered answering, then thought better of it.
You just never know with dames.
I keep a hard wooden chair across from my desk. Uncomfortable, so as to discourage clients from staying and shooting the breeze. She glided to the chair and sat down. Her short, red skirt rode up her thigh, revealing the black lace top of thigh-high stockings.
I sucked in my breath and cursed buying that damn chair.
“They tell me that’s you,” she crooned. “The best, I mean.” I concentrated on the way her lips moved under blood-red lipstick. “I need you, Mr. Anderson.”
Anderson? Who the hell was Anderson? “You got the wrong sap, lady,” I said. A damn shame, too. “The name’s Monroe. Philip Monroe. Private detective, at your service.”
“Mr. Anderson!” The feminine voice filtered through the door, accompanied by the staccato rhythm of someone pounding to get in. “Hello? Is anybody there?”
David Anderson clicked off his microcassette recorder, reality settling around him like a wet wool blanket. He had no idea who the hell had interrupted him, but if the pounding was any indication, she wasn’t going away anytime soon. “Hang on,” he said, swinging his feet off the desk. “I’m coming.”
With a groan, he levered himself out of his chair and made his way around the pine kitchen table he’d converted to a desk. He managed to avoid knocking over the stack of boxes filled with classic-rock vinyl and a few old T-shirts, but wasn’t so lucky with the novels piled up next to the sofa, and his copies of I, The Jury, Vengeance Is Mine, and other hard-boiled classics ended up scattered all over the floor.
“Hello?” That voice again, only meeker this time.
“Just a sec,” he yelled. Irritated by both the interruption and his own clumsiness, he kicked a copy of My Gun Is Quick, sending it sliding over the hardwood floor. It came to rest by the ancient Royal typewriter he periodically tried to fix. A damn fine novel, it didn’t deserve such treatment, and he stifled the urge to drop down and rescue it. Time enough for that after he got rid of whoever was at the door. Probably a Jehovah’s Witness. Or a Girl Scout. He half frowned. If that was the case, he’d take a box of Thin Mints before he sent her packing.
“Mr. Anderson! Please. It’s raining.”
He negotiated the rest of the obstacle course he called his floor until he reached the door. He flung it open and there she was—a drowned rat of a woman in white Keds, a soggy yellow sundress, and matted red hair.
Not that he’d been expecting the dame from his scene, but this gal didn’t even come close. Unlike the coiffed woman in his head, this girl’s chin-length curls looked like they wouldn’t coif if her life depended on it. And no too-tight skirt for this gal. Her gauzy dress fell almost to her ankles, revealing nothing more provocative than lacy socks and white sneakers.
>
This woman was no femme fatale, but she sure as hell wasn’t a Girl Scout, either. Damn disappointing. Especially since she’d pulled him away from what was developing into a damn good scene. And he hadn’t come up with a damn good scene in a long time. He needed a good scene—several, actually—if he ever hoped to sell one of his novels.
The way his writing had been going lately, that fine day promised to be a cold one in hell.
“Well, damn,” he said, leaning against the doorjamb. “So much for cookies.”
“Excuse me?” Her eyes widened, her long lashes framing emerald green irises. The woman herself might be bland as hell, but she had nice eyes. He added a point to his mental tally, bringing her up to one and a half. The half was for the red hair. He’d always been a sucker for redheads.
“Thin Mints,” he said, as if that would clear it all up for her.
Instead of asking, she gave him that look—the one all women shared but apparently didn’t come with Y chromosomes—and inched closer to the open door. “Can I come in?”
“That depends,” he said. “Who are you and what are you selling?”
She blinked, then looked around, as if the answer to his question could be found lurking on the stairs leading up to his tiny garage apartment. “Uh, I’m Jacey Wilder.”
A niggling feeling in the back of his mind told him that name should mean something.
“I have an appointment?” she added, the statement coming out as a question.
A client. Of course. Well, that made sense. His annoyance at the interruption faded. As much as he needed a damn good scene, he needed money more. Lately his investigation career had been about as dry as his writing career.
“Yeah. Right. Sorry.” He stepped back and ushered her all the way in. “I’m a little distracted this morning.”
She brushed past him. “I guess so.”
Ignoring her smart-aleck response, he shut the door and then led her across the room. The living room doubled as his office, so he aimed her toward the sofa that faced his desk. The cushions were buried under piles of Dashiell Hammett novels, true crime magazines, and dessert recipes ripped from the pages of Gourmet and Food and Wine. He swept the whole mess onto the floor before gesturing for her to sit down.
“A little light reading?” she asked.
“Something like that,” he said. He grabbed a towel off a pile of rumpled laundry and tossed it to her. He didn’t care about the couch, but he figured he ought to make some effort toward being polite.
“Thank you,” she said, blotting her face and her dress. She nodded toward the books. “I guess it makes sense. You write true crime books and you’re a private investigator, so I’m sure studying The Maltese Falcon comes in handy.”
Great. The one client he had lined up and she couldn’t stop with the wisecracks. “Book,” he said.
Her brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”
“I wrote Stalking Death five years ago. One true crime book in five years. That doesn’t make me the J.K. Rowling of true crime, okay?”
Her eyes widened even as her lips thinned. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to touch a nerve.” Her words were polite, but her expression practically shouted that she thought he was a nutcase.
Maybe he had come on a little strong, but he was sick to death of everyone assuming that since he’d written one true crime book, he was all gung ho to write another. He might need the money—hell, he might need it a lot—but he damn sure didn’t need the long hours interviewing witnesses, poring over trial transcripts, and hanging out in courtrooms. And, of course, there was the little problem of not having anything to write about even if he was so inclined.
Rather than explain any of that to her, he just said simply, “Now I’m a private investigator. That’s what I do.”
Not exactly the full truth, but only three people knew that he was working on a novel—his agent, his Aunt Millie, and, thanks to Aunt Millie’s big mouth, his buddy Finn. His aunt was convinced he’d be the next F. Scott Fitzgerald. His agent kept bugging him to forget novels, go hang out with a few rapists, and spit out another gory true crime opus. Finn, thank God, had no thoughts on the matter at all.
Of course, David had no intention of sharing any of that with the likes of Jacey Wilder. Not that she really seemed interested. Instead, she looked mildly concerned about his sanity. Hell, half the time he was concerned about his sanity.
She wet her lips and clutched her purse a little tighter. “Um, have I come at a bad time?”
She had, but that was hardly the girl’s fault. He waved the question away, then rubbed his forehead, trying to remember why the hell she’d made an appointment. “Gimme a sec, okay, lady?”
He sat down behind his desk and glanced at the ink blotter until he found the note scribbled in the top left corner: Jacey Wilder. 12:15.
“Look, I’ve obviously come at a bad time.” She stood up, tucking her purse under her arm. “Why don’t I just call later to reschedule?”
David’s stagnant brain kicked into gear. The girl who could well be his only paycheck for the month was getting ready to leave. That wasn’t good, especially since the IRS was suddenly his new best friend.
“No! I mean, wait. Sorry, Ms. Wilder. Just distracted by a case.” He smiled his most charming smile and waited for lightning to strike him down for his lie.
No lightning. Plus she leaned back against the cushions and put her purse beside her. Okay. The morning was definitely looking up.
“You were saying?” he prompted.
“I said, they told me you were the best. That’s what I need, Mr. Anderson. The best. Can you help me?”
“They? Who exactly are they?” As he expected, she squirmed a little on his couch. He expected it because he wasn’t the best. Not by a long shot. So either she was lying or someone in town was seriously misinformed. Either way, he was curious.
“Does it really matter who referred me?”
“Of course,” he lied. David leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on his desk, then looked at her over the scuffed toes of his loafers. He’d have to remember to get a shoeshine. “I need to know where my clients are coming from.”
“Elliott Talbot,” she mumbled.
“Who?” he said. Tacky, but he couldn’t resist baiting her. Especially since Talbot wouldn’t recommend a taxi in the rain.
She looked up and met his eyes. “Elliott Talbot,” she said, this time with more force.
“Oh! Elliott. What a guy, that Elliott. Bet he really sung my praises, huh?” Talbot was one of the most prominent criminal defense attorneys in the Los Angeles area. He was also a big wussy, but that was only David’s opinion. Of course, David had expressed that opinion pretty loudly in Stalking Death and Elliott had been known to carry a grudge. If Talbot had referred Jacey, her case had to be lame.
This time when he looked over his toes, she was nibbling on her lower lip. Her cheeks had bloomed a charming shade of pink. And he was beginning to feel like a heel for baiting her.
He swung his feet to the floor and picked up his pencil, twirling it between his fingers like a miniature baton. “Never mind. Doesn’t matter.” He looked back down at her name on the blotter. He’d written “BF” beside the time. Bananas Foster? Probably not, though maybe he’d make some this weekend. Barely forty? He raked his gaze over her. No way. He guessed twenty-seven, then made a mental note to look up her driver’s license and see if he was right.
Boyfriend. Of course. “You’re trying to locate a missing boyfriend.”
She licked her lips, then nodded. “Yes. Exactly. That’s what I told you on the phone, right?”
He nodded absently, wondering about the man who’d skipped out on her. Jacey wasn’t David’s type, of course. He could tell the moment he opened the door that she was the kind of girl who wanted a picket fence in the front yard and a swing set in the back. He’d been there, done that, and had no interest in traveling that suburban road again. But some men liked that kind of thing and he wondered why Jac
ey’s specimen had skedaddled.
“So give me the rest of the scoop,” he said, since Jacey didn’t seem inclined to elaborate.
“You nailed it. A missing boyfriend. Just like you said.” She smiled. “I’d have to say that sums it up perfectly.” She folded her hands in her lap and stared expectantly at him.
He rubbed his forehead. “You wanna maybe give me a little more to go on?”
“Oh. Right. Sorry.” She hauled the purse back into her lap and started rummaging through it. She paused midrummage and flashed him a smile. “I’m a little new to this whole PI thing.”
“It’s pretty painless. Just two steps. Tell me what you know and tell me what you want to find out.”
The wattage of her smile gave his lamps a run for their money. “I can do that.” After a few more excavations into her cavernous purse, she pulled out an envelope. She stood up and moved to his desk, her hip barely brushing the wood as she plunked the envelope down in front of him. “That’s it. That’s all I know.”
He unfastened the clasp and peered inside—one photograph and a tattered napkin. He pulled them out and set them on the blotter.
She pointed to the photo, which showed a man walking on the beach. His face was partially in the shadows but was still clear enough, and it looked like the photographer had been up high, maybe on a balcony. “That’s him,” she said. “The napkin’s a note I wrote to myself.”
David glanced at the cocktail napkin. Albert Alcott. Harvard Law.“So this is old Albert, huh?” Already, David didn’t like the guy. The man was one of those obnoxious pretty-boy types who probably had three or four country club membership cards tucked into his wallet.
Still, David liked the idea of the scorned woman writing her lover’s name on a napkin. If it got wet, everything she knew about the guy would dissolve like so many soggy tissues. Then the heroine would have to hire Monroe to find the boyfriend, who, of course, would never be found. And the heroine would fall for Monroe instead. Except, she’d be—
